To some this would be a ticket to a wild and free week to do whatever. Me, I’m not loving this freedom.

My son and I have trekked the last four years almost completely on our own. With the help of family and friends here and there, I’ve raised him with only me as his sole parent.

He’s a tough booger. He’s defiant and head stronger. He’s extremely intelligent and very silly. He’s tall and taken for a six year old regularly, rather than the 4 year old that he actually is.

The fact that he’s survived this long is a huge accomplishment for this single mommy.

So when he started spending time with his other parent I took it in and enjoyed my free time. It was so rare that I often over booked myself with things to do.

But for some reason, this visit isn’t going as smoothly for me. I miss him something terrible.

Maybe it’s because he’s gone during a week that I’m at work so nothing for me has changed. He’s just not here. I still get up, get dressed, pack my lunch and arrive late to work the same as when he’s here. Except he’s not.

It’s a slippery slope to tread when your daily routine has shifted ever so slightly. There is a very fine line between relaxing and lazy. And I’m treading it clumsily.

I need a pick me up. Some motivation to continue. To breathe. To have purpose.

Because, in the four year I’ve lived as a mommy, the 25 years before that of being “just me” have all but been erased. He is my purpose. My motivation to do most anything.

I won’t call you just out of the blue to say “Hi”. I’d probably forget the exact date of your birth if it wasn’t for Google calendar and Facebook reminders. I’ll probably be glad when plans to go out don’t come through because I’d really rather be at home in my pajamas.

I remember the little things like that you don’t care for a certain vegetable or that you like to sit on the right side of the couch. I’ll remember what your favorite childhood cartoon was and I’ll gift you an old copy of the show. I’ll purposely look for things to try or make with you in mind.

When you talk, I may sound uninterested or I may have to ask for things to be repeated. It’s not because I can’t hear you (though that is very possible) or that I’m not paying attention but I’m trying to really listen to what you are saying. And also what you aren’t.

I may not be the greatest friend. I tend to be introverted and like my space. But once a friendship is made, I’ll be that loyal, stand-by friend.

I may not call first but I always call back. I may not remember the date of your birthday but I’ll know about when it happens. And though I’m happy our plans to go out fell through, I’ll most likely invite you over in your own pajamas to sit with some wine and watch movies together.

It’s a normal day. Everything has been as it usually is. Drop off at school was full of hugs and kisses. Work was pleasantly busy and customers were their usual selves. The coffee was hot and the toilet is still broken.

Then you hit a landmine.

Landmines can be found in many forms. A picture, a note, an email, an old text message. Sometimes a sock found at the bottom of the laundry basket or a gift bought with the intention to be given.

Even a toothbrush found in a drawer in the guest bathroom, left there for those unexpected sleepovers.

Landmines can be found anywhere and in any form.

The worst part about a landmine is that they are, in most cases, unexpected.

If you are in the middle of battle, you have your wits about you and you know to keep an eye out. So, finding a landmine is usually no cause for concern. It’s expected. So you dig it up, dispose of it and move on, happy to have all limbs attached due to your diligence.

It’s when the battle has ceased and your life has regained some sort of normalcy that an unexpected landmine can be extremely damaging.

Once the majority of the battle is done and those involved are left to pick up the pieces, you find yourself letting down your guard. The fight is over, now it’s time to heal. Time to lick the wounds created by those you once loved and time to move on.

You are injured and recovering. You aren’t thinking about any possible landmines left in the wake of the destruction.

Then it happens. You step and trip, falling onto a hidden landmine months after the everything is over. Or at least after you thought everything was over.

You find a reminder on your calendar for a birthday. The celebration of life. A happy moment, one in which you enjoy. One you once were apart of.

Suddenly you find yourself on your knees, clutching your chest. Your heart pounds. The pain is real. It’s deep, deeper than you could have ever imagined. All this time spent rebuilding your life and the healing has yet to reach the deepest part of your spirit in which the memories of your happiness with the one you loved still hides.

A bubble of grief forms in your chest. You take deep breaths trying to rid your body of the discomfort. The tears form and begin to pool over your lashes and streak down your cheeks.

cre·a·tiv·i·ty

1. (n) the state or quality of being creative.

Being creative is something I know well. I paint, I draw, I write, and in general, I create. My creations are mostly in the form of art or some sort of visual representation of my imaginative spirit.

I believe that each person has the ability to create whether it’s in technology, music, art, or words. We all have it within us to make something based on our skills and our abilities. Some people live this area in their everyday lives.

I am one of those people. I create whenever possible. When I don’t, I feel awful. Like part of myself is being ignored. Like I’m only half of my abilities.

Lately, my creativity is flowing in the kitchen. Any recipe I’ve tried in the last couple of weeks have been a success. I’ve been pretty happy with each outcome and have tried things I’ve never made before: orzo, caramelized onions, browning butter, gratin.

I don’t know how long this energy will last but I find that while I’m creative in the kitchen and feeling quite successful, my other crafty areas are left unattended.